Do not number me
among that bundle of stalks you plan to sweeten.
For I am sour
and I have known your candlelight in forcing sheds
where no-one looks.
My subterranean crown you once divided, the tangles split,
then by hand reburied under mulch.
From eyes displaced and blind, I grow again.
With such guile you claim control,
oblivious – so long as sugar’s cheap –
how year on year the overwinter cold diminishes.
Glossy and firm, my stems emerge, creaking.
Each beneath its toxic, heart-shaped parasol.
So, twist off these crimson limbs
formed in darkness,
but do not taste my tartness unalloyed.
ii. 2024
